oh fun :)

Cycling back from dinner on my little blue one-speed with the passenger seat. Sarah sped ahead on her motorcy. I wrinkled my nose, and my muscles rose to the challenge; half way home Sarah had stayed the same distance ahead of me as when I had decided to race her... ‘Nicola, wouldn’t it would be nice to pedal home slowly and enjoy the evening?’. A grin stole across my face and a terribly embarrassing giggle erupted out of me (if anyone had been there to hear it), and I retorted to myself that I am fully enjoying the evening. My eyes on Sarah’s motorcy, I calculated every rise and fall of the road. I can pretend that I know exactly when to pedal and when not to in order to go as fast as I can. On my little too-small blue one-speed with the passenger seat. These tires stopped only seconds after Sarah’s. Collapsing with both fits of laughter and muscle aches in front of the gate... that was so fun. ‘I’m sorry... I didn’t know we were racing’. :) . Hehe... if you had, it wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun.

Last night I went to my Burmese friends’ house for dinner again. I adore them. Orang and I got to talk again over dishes... I’m so glad they let me help wash dishes. The best conversations start while washing or drying dishes I think. Or piling logs. Hm, anyway I asked all about his family, about his siblings, about what his Mom was like before she died last year (of Cancer I think). And then he let me listen to a CD he made when a visiting Australian came and recorded his songs for him. I can’t wait to have you listen to this music... I can’t describe it. I can’t carry on a conversation worth anything when he sings; we just sat there, drinking coffee and listening. He told me about each of his eight siblings, and what they do now. His oldest brother went to work in the fishing industry down South, and I asked if he had ever been to visit. He said that no, he had left when Orang was two and they had never heard of him since... that means he left when he was 10 or 11 years old. Trafficking for the fishing industry is huge here too; they take boys from the rural north and have them swim to untangle fishing nets... but most of the time the boys can’t swim (clearly, because they live on rural farms) and the death toll is huge. That’s just so crazy to me... how normal it is... for kids to not even remember their siblings names... I also found out that his name is actually ‘All Rain’, and is only pronounced ‘Orang’. He said his grandmother had been taught English by the colonists and when it was raining profusely on his birth, decided to call him, ‘All Rain’. Sweet name.

I received an e-mail after the earthquake in Haiti about the risks inherent to all the abandoned, orphaned, and unstable women and children there and how agents of trafficking have flocked there to take advantage of people in their dire need. Oh... *groan... please Lord, care for your people in Haiti... and press us to pray, more, more, more.

Still enamoured with my bright blue bicycle with a basket, and proudly the only one in town who wears a helmet while riding a bike (even after a Thai stopped me and told me it wasn't necessary),

Nicola.